“So, Scanlan.” Pike paused, attempting to gather her thoughts. It was a rude question burning a hole in her brain, back in the early days when the idea of Vox Machina becoming legends seemed ludicrous and unachievable, and after several pints, she had finally worked up the courage. “You’re the first bard I’ve ever really talked to. Can I ask you a question? It’s not personal, I promise.”

He flashed her a grin. “Pike, you can ask me anything your heart desires.”

“Are you actually any good at what you...” She made a vague hand gesture. 

He raised his eyebrows. “At what I do?”

“I mean, I assume you go for practice, but if you pay for admission, they can’t say you’re bad at it. You have an act and a reputation that’s riding on it. You’ve gotta exaggerate a little--” Pike could feel her face getting redder by the minute.

“Embellish,” he corrected her. “There’s a time and a place for both and if your story is particularly outlandish, it can be a fine line to walk. But we’re not talking about my music, are we?” Scanlan gave her a knowing look and she cringed.

“Pike--” Grog interjected, plopping down on the other side of the table.

“Not now, Grog,” both gnomes went in unison, Pike’s tone distinctively snappish. He looked hurt for a moment, then shrugged and chugged both ales in his hand before disappearing into the crowd again. She asked Sarenrae for forgiveness and begged to open up the earth beneath her and swallow her, but no such luck.

“M’sorry,” she groaned through her hands. “I like your music, Scanlan. I really do! But there wasn’t a good way to say it and I’d never talk about it with Grog--”

“For perfectly understandable reasons.” Scanlan ran a finger along the rim of his glass. “I will say, I do find it hard to believe I’m the first bard you’ve ever talked to. You put everyone at ease and you’re the first person to help and the last to judge when there’s trouble. If we were only a little tipsy, I’d invite you to come here and find out, but I’m a gentleman and I’ve learned not to kiss and tell.” 

Pike frowned at him. “Scanlan, that was the longest maybe I’ve ever heard.”

He gave her a smug shrug, spreading his hands. “Only you can decide if--” He quieted when she rested her hand on his cheek and looked deep into his eyes.

“Prove it,” she murmured, relishing the rare occurrence of catching him off guard. Slightly vulnerable suited him, but he didn’t hesitate. He cradled her head with one hand and kissed her, his other arm wrapped snugly around her waist. Pike dug her fingers into his collar with a soft moan when he deepened it, now almost entirely in his lap. She thought about straddling him when they paused, then squawked as he deposited back onto the bench. “Scanlan, that’s not fair!”

“Me? I’m not fair? You pulled my hair and slipped me tongue in the first minute!” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Trust me, my dear Pike Trickfoot--pulling away from you before we forgot ourselves is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

“You caught me off guard with your---your---” She fumbled for words and scowled at him, eventually settling into a pout, her arms crossed. “I want a redo.”

Daisy had been working hard to try and get this case closed and out of her hair. For once, it did seem to be a case that was worth a Section 31 form but it didn’t mean that she wanted to spend all of her time on it. She was currently working her way through CCTV footage, her reluctance to work in an office on computers slowing her down remarkably. It was a shame that there weren’t more desk officers that were sectioned, since then she could at least spend more of her time where she was best placed; on the ground.

One of the witnesses to the ‘event’, as it was coming to be known, was a young woman who appeared to have disappeared into nothingness between frames of the video. She was also conveniently seemed to know where every CCTV camera was. Something that was a little more unusual was that she seemed to be able to look at multiple cameras at seemingly the same time. Definitely weird. She’d sent a few officers to do the legwork she didn't want to while she covered and chased up leads for a few of her other cases. Finally, she received a name.

Eleanor Rigby. Easy enough to remember for someone who grew up with parents listening to the Beatles. And an address. Hopefully, it would all go down well when she turned up on the doorstep and asked for information.

And that was how she’d ended up on the doorstep of a church at the address she’d been given as the last known address for one Ms. Eleanor Rigby. A seemingly dead, Eleanor Rigby, who was on her CCTV tapes clear as day. This one truly was turning out to be weird.

As soon as the door opened she thrust her badge towards the man who’d opened it, folded open to display her badge. She didn't know who he was but the badge made most people talk and could get her into most places. Plus this was a Church as far as she could tell. They had to let her in.

       “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” Or at all. Perhaps she’d even hoped not to. An unkind sentiment, but it’s not as though he’s made much effort to be cordial. “Why have you come back? Some forgotten heirloom?” Maker, she’s exhausted. Elspeth was barely through the door when Varel told her of Nathaniel’s presence, and now she’s obliged to live with the darkspawn blood on her boots a while longer. “I said you could take what you like. I don’t want any of it.” 

@skyaches​ How similar are the cycles? Obviously he tries to make changes to avert the apocalypse but are there any cycles that are very out of the ordinary or so wildly different that they would stand out? But if they are all pretty much the same, how does Five cope with the fact it feels like he's in a perpetual Groundhog Day of the same stuff over and over?

the cycles are largely the same. he fights the same people, using the same methods, sometimes he finds shortcuts or easier ways to do things and sometimes he runs into unanticipated problems here and there, but it’s all just variables. details, numbers, names, some things change but by and large, he’s reliving the same 20-ish years over and over again. throughout the cycles there are new threats he has to anticipate or figure out how to overcome, especially in cycles that follow losing a sibling. especially when he’s the only one left. but otherwise, it’s simply monotony.

a lot of his time in the cycles is spent waiting. waiting for this event to unfold, waiting to see if the dominos fell in the exact right way at the exact right time, waiting and listening and planning. in earlier cycles, when he still grew up physically, he went to college, picked up engineering as a major, or computer science, or mathematics, or linguistics, etc etc. it’s not as easy in later cycles, especially as the number of threats escalates and the number of doomsday triggers he has to block too, and he loses his siblings one by one etc etc. and he has to shift his focus more fully towards his mission.

some times something goes awry early on. some variable knocks another one loose and like a thread in a tapestry it weaves a new pattern. like, say, reginald is killed before he can adopt any of the children, and so they’re all scattered across the earth, or he adopts different children, etc etc., and it leads to one pretty unique run, but otherwise the change in trajectory over the cycles is very gradual. nearly unnoticeable to people traveling it, if they weren’t keeping tabs on everything like five was.

as for how he copes..... badly lol. he drinks. a lot. he keeps himself busy with work. gets a day job, more than one if need be, which was a lot easier in earlier cycles when he used to grow to be an adult in appearance. picks up hobbies and interests, tries new things but is afraid of where these unaccounted for variables may lead. every step he takes he calculates, the numbers running in the back of his head like white noise, like tipper tape. some times he goes to the mall when he really doesn’t know what to do or how to cope, and has hour long conversations with delores about how he’s been, what she’s been up to, how he’s doing these days. she tells him about the people she saw that day. she tells him he’ll be fine. he takes her offered comforts and tucks them close before he leaves again.

he goes to therapy in a few cycles. his siblings push him towards it, and he eventually takes the leap of faith. it helps. it helps more than he thought it would. he gets diagnosed with bipolar 1, among other things he already knew (ptsd and generalized anxiety) and undergoes treatment for years. the apocalypse happens again. he goes back again. he stops going to therapy altogether by the 39th cycle.

while five craves change, he also craves anchors. some things he’s noticed always stay the same, no matter how much everything else changed. he holds onto these things dearly.

          ❝  whose idea was it---------- ?  the garden ?  ❞  to say she was hiding from her newly betrothed might be a bit of a strong term, but perhaps not entirely inaccurate. letter writing is so far removed from vocalization and human contact, it requires poise and composure. there is no chance to cycle through 3 rolls of parchment in an attempt to search for the right words. is she aware that the answer is likely as simple as a housemaid from long before either of them were even a thought, it’s an attempt. a gentle peace offering to acknowledge his presence and yes she’s been quite aware of his presence, even before she could see him out of the corner of her eye.

          he is the type her mother always purported herself to be but could never quite attain. he does not have to raise his voice to garner attention, even the wind itself holds its breath at the fall of his step. nothing dares to move. except that she does, her fingertip brushes over the purple bloom of the monkshood. quite an abundance of it, some might say it is unbalanced in the garden of lush white and black flowers that span the rest, but it’s stunning. a sharp splash of color in a place where no others dare to tread. she admires the resilience of them.  ❝  it’s lovely... it must require quite a bit of tending.  ❞